


A Glow

by AuroraRebellion



Category: Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: (not really graphic or mentioned much? but its There and canon typical), Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nagamas, Nagamas 2019, ft. my many many headcanons about this bunch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraRebellion/pseuds/AuroraRebellion
Summary: He raises a hand here, calling for all to focus on his words."Lend me your strength for the sake of peace!”-During the journey to the Ice Dragon Shrine, Marth nearly loses hope, and then gains it all over again.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30
Collections: Nagamas Gifts





	A Glow

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the 2019 Nagamas gift exchange! Hope you all enjoy, 'cause I honestly had fun writing it

He'd never have made it on his own. Just him, Marth of Altea, nineteen and armed with little more than his rapier, he'd never have survived Anri's Way.

They've barely all survived part of it as a group, and right now they're a ragged gathering, huddled orderlessly among ancient ruins.

Wrys, Yubello, Wendell, and Marisha weave their way through all who are gathered, healing those who need it; between the humans and the wyverns of the desert…

He still feels dizzy, unsteady, and deeply sore. The wvyern’s claws digging in against the chainmail he wears beneath his outer tunic, the embers reigniting behind rows of dagger-teeth, the feeling of falling as he plummeted through the air--

“Lord Marth!” Someone calls, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns and finds Kris coming to a stop before him.

“Kris? Is something wrong?”

“Sir Jagen requests your presence, Sire. It’s for a council meeting.”

Oh. Of course, with the wyverns still circling dots in the distance (they were all too content to feast upon the remains of their former tamers, and Marth isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disgusted), their response to it all must be made. Aimless action or inaction will kill their drive and purpose- as surely as falling from the sky would have killed a certain prince if Caeda hadn’t caught him.

“I understand. Thank you, Kris.” There’s something more to say, isn’t there? Surely there is. “Have you seen one of the healers, yet?”

“No, sire. I’ve been too busy making sure everyone is here. I’ll speak with Sir Wrys shortly.”

“That’s…” _Not ideal_. But Kris doesn’t need to hear that. Marth smiles. “That’s good, Kris. Take care of yourself- that’s an order. And a request, as a friend.”

“Understood, Sire. I’ll strive to do so.”

“Thank you. I’ll let Jagen know your message was delivered.”

Kris salutes, and heads his way over to the main group that’s gathered together. Marth, on the other hand, sets his sights towards one of the few tents already pitched in what seems to have been a central square. Despite how tired and scattered he feels, he has to focus. Their choices in this, whether to move on or stay, scouting missions, how to set up a patrol when some of the usual patrol are wounded… all important decisions.

He pushes aside the flap to the tent, and steps inside. It’s a little cooler than he expected- likely due to the restless breeze that flutters whenever Merric moves. Caeda is beside him, and her gaze meets Marth’s with a dark worry in her eyes. He smiles (he’s fine, is the response he wants to convey) and raises a hand.

They all are either standing, or seated on a tattered mat. Caeda is on her feet, Merric and Jagen sit across from one another with the map spread between them, and Cain heaves himself up from the ground, leaning heavily on a lance for support.

“Lord Marth,” Jagen greets. “Did Kris call you here?”

“Yes, he delivered the message, and I came right here.” He walks over to the map, glancing over it as he imagines what they were discussing. “Do you have a certain course you advise we take?”

“Somewhat.” Jagen tilts his head back down to the map, motioning over the paper. “The parts detailing Anri’s Way are likely heavily flawed. As such, we can’t trust it much.”

“I’ll be scouting ahead when possible,” Caeda adds, “I and the others who can fly.”

“That’s good. Thank you all.” There’s certainly more, though, and it comes when Jagen purses his lips and taps a spot on the map; the City of Thabes, where once Gharnef lurked, where once they wrested Falchion from Dohlr’s hands. The place they all stand in now, finding shelter in the faded stone.

“I advise we investigate the tower before we leave the city, Your Highness. It seems unlikely that anything would lie within the ruins… yet it would be foolish to ignore it entirely.”

The response is easy to find, and he’s quick to speak it: “I’ll lead a search. Better safe than sorry.”

“Who will come with?” Cain questions. Marth frowns. It could be a trap, there could be enemies, within, and as such…

“A small group. I will pick them and lead the search myself.”

“I’m coming with you,” Caeda interjects. Merric nods firmly in an echo of the sentiment. Marth doesn’t do anything but accept, right now.

“Thank you. If this meeting is adjourned…”

“We’ll rejoin after we search the tower, if you agree, Sire." Marth pauses, and eyes Cain. _We_ implies the speaker intends to go, and...

Usually he tries not to call attention to his compatriots’ differences or signs of old injury, when it comes to a bad leg or scars- for all they've endured, it hardly seems to slow most of them down. But just this once, he lowers his gaze to Cain’s hands, wrapped tightly around the lance, and to the leg that barely has any weight put on it.

“You need to stay behind,” he says, as he looks back up. “Just for this. You can’t ride your horse indoors in the tower, and the stairs won't be hospitable.”

The way Cain’s expression hardens makes his stomach twist, but Marth tries to remind himself that Cain simply wears most his emotions on his sleeve, and that _he_ would be upset if _he_ was told not to come as well, regardless of whether or not if was for a good reason.

“...As you wish, Lord Marth,” Cain finally sighs. It’s disappointment, not anger. The knot in his abdomen loosens. “But take Kris," he adds hastily. "And Wendell.”

Cain’s sudden words- almost an order- earn him a rather chilly glance from Jagen, but Marth nods.

“Thank you for your advice. I’ll do my best to follow it.”

\---

His feet already ache, and his legs already protest at more movement, but he still continues walking. Caeda and Merric are nearby, and Kris keeps step at his side.

Marth keeps his eyes on the archway leading into the tower. It seems silent, still, dark and dead, yet in this place he can’t afford to trust what it _seems_ to be.

“Stay alert,” he commands over his shoulder, “There may be mages inside.”

The response is a small choir of _yes, sir._ Kris adds _Your Highness_ to it.

It helps a little, to hear the group so attentive and determined. If only he could wait for a while, if only he could stop and do it alone, or even not do it at all- but he can’t risk missing something important inside the tower, and even more he can’t afford to risk an ambush on the camp because the tower was full of enemies, waiting for their target to let down their guard.

He wishes he could do it alone. That would lighten the burden on everyone behind him, everyone else he’s asked to come along. They surely feel just as tired as him, if not more.

Still, there’s little other choice. He can simply keep his own head held high, and keep picking his feet up after one another; up the stairs, into the dark, onward.

...

There wasn't anything in the tower.

Well, nothing save for Xane, who chose a rather unusual method of reintroducing himself… It’s a bit of a relief, in one way, as much as it’s a bit disappointing to find most of the effort was for nothing.

Xane is waiting at the entrance for them all, having declared the temple empty at least half an hour prior.

“Playin’ treasure hunter earn you any new bounty, princey?” Marth shakes his head.

“No, it was empty. Just as you said.”

“Yeah, I did tell you so… Oh well. What’s next on the list?”

“We set up camp and rest,” Marth responds. “It’s been… a very long day.”

“Right." He grins, crossing his arms behind his head. "What if I transformed into somebody like Draug, got the whole thing done in an hour? Eh?”

“I’m not sure anybody but the _real_ Draug could manage that,” Gordin snickers. Xane shrugs.

“You might have a point… yeah, nevermind, that's a lot of work.”

Silence settles again. It’s far more comfortable this time than it was before. Less hushed voices and footsteps, more that there’s just no need for sound. Everyone’s certainly tired, too, and exhaustion typically breeds silence.

Many of the tents are already set up in camp, and a few groups have claimed some of the houses that still hold functioning roofs and chimneys. He’s glad to see the healer’s area has been moved to one of the largest of such buildings.

But regardless, Marth himself opts for a simple tent as usual.

\---

They remain in camp for a few days. The wyverns seem to have no desire to come towards the city (he’s been watching the skies, taking a shift in the schedule his guard has set up), and the company needs the time to recover.

Food and water have been rationed as scarcely as possible, but it's still a limited resource and won’t last forever regardless. They can’t afford to spend too long in once place, using up their supplies without any action to show for it, when they could be marching again.

So finally, one morning, Marth gives the call to pick up camp and start again. ...Yet of course, his natural luck dictates that he would choose one of the hotter days, when the desert of Marmotord feels far closer to how he’d initially expected the desert to feel like. Dry and with a scorching sun. Caeda has been coughing all day.

So at noon, when they are preparing to set off, Marth finds it difficult to be anything but grim as he stands before them. The breeze to his back (thanks to Merric) will carry his voice, yet he still can’t afford to mumble.

He begins as he always does;

“ _Thank you, my friends, for coming with me this far_. I have always known my strength alone would not suffice, and this journey has already demonstrated to me my own weakness. I could never have crossed this desert alone, nor fought off man and beast alike.”

The gazes on him are just as solemn as the expression that's set itself onto his face. He takes a deep breath.

“And yet, I must still ask more of you. The desert is only the beginning of this treacherous journey, and I dare not set my gaze on the goal without your support. Thus my request, to each and every one of you, in this fight to liberate our homelands…”

He lets his own gaze wander over the crowd.

“Stand with me, please. Lend me your strength. It will be difficult, and I will not attempt to give you anything but the truth of the matter. The worst is yet to come. Yet still, I ask of you- _join me._ Join and fight for the sake of our homes."

He raises a hand here, calling for all to focus on his words. "Lend me your strength for the sake of peace!”

Silence. Serious, sombre expressions. Then-

“For Lord Marth!” Comes a cry. And it’s echoed--

_“For Lord Marth!”_ -By so many voices he can’t pick them out individually. He sees people’s mouths open, sees people raise their weapons overhead, and they cheer so loud he can nearly _feel_ it as well as hear.

_**“For Lord Marth!!”** _

All for him.

_All for him_ , and all he can do is smile and raise his hand further above his head, smile and express his thanks in a way that seems feeble in comparison to the emotions swirling in his chest. He truly can’t do it alone, and to think that everyone before him honestly means it when they shout their support…

He motions for Jagen to give the call to march, and turns his head away so most the company can’t see. Perhaps he can will himself not to cry.

\---

They brought him hope, for a time. He would think back on their cheers and think, _with them, there’s a way to get through this._

Hope fades, however, and this time it wasn’t even given the chance to do so.

He never wants to see another volcano again for as long as he lives. The heat, the noise, the _dragons--_ Kris is unconscious, set to ride with Cain as he can’t exactly stay on his own horse right now. Cain keeps him close, head cradled carefully. Even from here, he can see the way blood mats Kris’s hair, sees the dents in armor from dragon claws. Cain is covered in a mix of soot and dragon blood himself. Caeda (covered just like Cain) walks along beside her pegasus, clothes singed and the ends of her hair burnt charred black. Gale the pegasus is nursing an injured wing.

Nothing seems to be going right at this point. Wrys’s staff has broken, and the healers have spent the last hour (they’ve been trying to find a safe place to stop for an _hour-_ ) trying to fix it. Merric walks unsteadily, still shivering from using Blizzard over and over and over against the fire dragons. He froze a dragon’s mouth shut, just once. It was likely the difference between life and death for Draug.

Oh, and _Draug._ He was the one Wrys broke his staff trying to heal, trying to heal a man who was a walking oven in the heat. He’s going to have some unsightly burn scars from it no matter what anyone does. Jagen’s showing signs of heatstroke (though he’ll never admit it while they’re still on the march)...

He wishes this feeling wasn’t so familiar. This sensation of having the entire world ripped out from under him by one horrendous event. Hope is sand in his palms and he’s been forced to turn his hands palm-down.

He’s certain they’ve lost _someone,_ at least one person, as well. How could they not? He knows those closest to him are alright, he’s seen Minerva and her Whitewings, Julian and Xane have been sharing jokes- he thinks they’re probably desperate to distract themselves, or at least Julian is--

Who’s dead, then? He can’t even begin to imagine yet it’s all he can think about.

“ _Company-!_ ” Jagen attempts to call, but cuts into a bout of coughing. All the ash, he had said earlier. Cain takes a deep breath, and adjusts his grip on Kris before shouting:

“ _Company, halt!_ We’re pitching camp! Healers, stay where you are, everyone else help the injured to them!”

Marth finds his feet stopping several seconds after he thinks they probably should have. And looking back at the bedraggled League behind him, he wishes the earth would swallow him up- just deep enough that it’s cold and dark, far from the _lava_ that supposedly resides deep within.

“Marth, come on.” It’s Caeda, who tugs him towards the healers. “You need to be healed too.”

He looks down at his side, at his right arm that is a mess of burnt fabric and seared flesh, and at his waist where his belt’s buckle is now misshapen due to the heat, and his leg where his thigh is in similar shape to his arm. His boot is burnt as well.

“Other people certainly need it more,” he insists. Caeda tugs at his cape, also tattered by fire.

“Please, Marth. We can let other people go first. Just come with me, please, so I can make sure.”

She shouldn’t have to be here. Shouldn’t have to sound so worried. She’s fought and fought and all Marth can do is-

“...Alright. Thank you, Caeda.”

She slips her hand in his uninjured one, and squeezes gently. He squeezes back.

He’s beginning to hate the very notion of Anri’s ‘heroic’ journey through this hell. How can it be heroic to force others through it? What does Gotoh hope to achieve by it?

He tries to keep himself kind towards Manaketes, yet he wonders. Perhaps Gotoh just wants to drag a few humans through a living nightmare, keeping them baited with the promise of something he _knows_ they desperately need...

He squeezes Caeda’s hand again. She returns the gesture.

The sun has long set, when everyone has found their way to their tents. Wrys’s staff was finally repaired enough to channel magic through, but now it sparks ominously even when not in use. It’s set outside of Wrys’s tent.

Despite the time, Marth feels little desire to sleep. His body is tired, yes, but his mind won’t let him rest.

He finds his way to the campfire. It’s a small thing, but a fire nonetheless. Around it are gathered Caeda and Merric, and Cain, Jagen and Kris ( _Kris is awake, if looking groggy, thank the gods_ ). Merric pushes Caeda aside gently, creating a space between the two of them for Marth. He takes the offered space to sit.

The fire crackles, and a log shifts. He’s not sure a fire is incredibly appropriate right now, but sitting in the dark seems even more unpleasant.

At least it’s not utterly silent with no sound at all; it's silent save for the flames. No one seems to want to look up at anyone else’s faces.

“...No one’s dead,” Cain finally speaks. Marth’s head jerks up, but Cain’s eyes are fixed on the fire still. “We got a few who aren’t fighting after this, not with those wounds, but nobody’s _dead._ ”

“That’s…” he swallows hard, and Caeda leans carefully against him. “That’s good. Thank you for telling me.” Cain just nods.

Embers float up into the night sky. Marth watches them until they wink out against the stars. ...They called him a star, once. Star and savior. Lodestar; star of guidance.

He doesn’t feel like any of that right now.

“I should have sent people home,” he confesses, should anyone be listening. “Back in the desert, they would have had a chance to leave if they weren’t willing to sacrifice what they have.”

“Do you think they would have, if you’d offered?” Merric asks. His words are gentle, but the meaning behind them- Marth flushes.

“No. Of course not. I dragged them into it, and they had no chance to turn back anymore. They were forced.”

“That’s not it,” Caeda says. “We weren’t forced at all.” There’s a murmur of ascent around the fire. Marth licks his lips before speaking again. His astronomy lessons happened ages ago, he hardly recognizes a single constellation above.

“You believe that, but… I must have forced you, at some point. How could you truly be willing to give up your health, your chance to return to life after this, just because I’ve asked?”

“Because you’ve asked," she says. "We’ve all responded because we _want_ to.”

“Is that truly so?”

“I had chosen to serve you long before you could even say my name, Sire,” Jagen states. “There was no way you could have forced my hand.” Marth finally lowers his gaze to the people around him, all focused on him, and then lowers his head further to tangle his hands in his hair.

“I don’t understand. I’ve lead you into death and turmoil before, and now I demand it of you _again_ , and you all…”

“We took an _oath,_ Your Highness,” Kris speaks. The attention shifts to him, and he pauses almost like he's uncertain, but still continues:

“I can only speak for myself, of course, but… when _I_ became a knight, I swore myself to your service. I promised to give my all for your cause, because it’s a cause I believe in. You… you gave me a purpose then, and give me a purpose still.”

Kris is so kind. So kind, so honest, so loyal, what has Marth done to deserve it? There’s a lump in his throat, and he swallows thickly around it as he stares at the ground.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you a better one.”

“We don’t need a 'better' one,” Merric says. “ _I_ certainly don’t want to follow anyone else.”

It sounds fake.

“...Why?”

“Because… you’re always on the right side. You _are_ the right side, from all my experiences. No one else sticks to that path like you do.”

“But I’m-”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” Cain snaps. Marth jolts and Jagen scolds, " _Cain!"_ Cain seems to ignore the latter, even while he softens his tone.

“What do you need that you don’t have, to be a good leader? You got the drive, the vision, the people behind you… hell, where else would we _go,_ Your Highness? We’ve all _lost our homes_ , and you’re the only direction we have here.”

...He’d never thought of it that way. Caeda slips an arm around his shoulders, careful as her touch skates over bandages.

“He’s right,” she murmurs. “We need you, too. You’re our _hope_ , and we need hope more than ever.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and tugs at his hair.

“How can I-” his voice _cracks,_ to his shame, and he has to start over. “How can I give you _hope,_ in times when I don’t have any?”

“Sire, you _are_ hope,” Kris insists. “You’re our hope.”

There’s some general shuffling. Cain hisses, “ _Kris, be careful!”,_ and Marth feels Caeda cringe. The shuffling turns into slightly clumsy footsteps, making their way around the fire. The dirt before him crunches beneath someone’s foot.

“Your Highness,” -Kris is far closer now, close like Merric and Caeda’s voices are- “I swore myself to your service before the war began. And when I met you, you gave me a _meaning._ One I could keep or put off if I wanted to.”

Marth isn’t sure how to respond. Being responsible for their hope, their purpose- do they truly look to him for those things? Can he truly shoulder such a task?

“I can’t ask for such devotion," he says. "I’ve done nothing to be worthy of it.”

“I disagree, sire.” Now Marth’s eyes flutter open, purely out of surprise. He sees his feet, and one of Kris’s knees. He’s kneeling. And now hands come into view, gently pulling one of his own from his head.

“In all my time in training and service for you, I’ve seen nothing but kindness from you. You’ve taken in me, and so many others who have done nothing to be worthy of your grace.”

Kris’s hands are rough with calluses, but his grip is warm and gentle. Marth finds his throat clogged again.

“And for that, Lord Marth my Prince, you have my loyalty, for as long as I draw breath.” His hands just might be shaking. This sounds familiar, too. It reminds him of when he held a ceremonial rapier in his hands, when he laid it across the shoulders of each new knight...

“I swear this before you, before witnesses, and before the eyes of Divine Naga. I will fight to restore your banner over my homeland.” It sounds like the pledge of loyalty each knight gave at the knighting ceremony.

“And Prince Marth, if you will accept…”

His hand is pressed against fabric, and he feels the thrum of a heartbeat beneath it. Kris’s heartbeat.

“I declare and swear my friendship as well. You shall have my support and my strength for as long as I live.”

“I…” he rubs at his eyes with one trembling hand, and tries to find the words. “This is a great gift you are offering, Kris. I’m not sure I can…” Kris’s grip tightens, and Marth’s hand is pressed more firmly against his chest. A heartbeat is such a fragile thing, Marth thinks, and to expose it so freely-

“Please, Sire. I wouldn’t offer it if I wasn’t willing to give all of it.”

He dares lift his head, despite the tears in his eyes, and lays his other hand over Kris’s. “I accept. I don’t have the words to thank you, Kris.” And his words earn a smile across that usually stern expression.

“All the thanks I need is to be allowed to serve and assist you, milord.”

He sees movement behind Kris, and looks just enough ahead of time to be prepared for the clang of armor against armor. Cain and Jagen, who have each knocked their respective vambraces against the one on the opposite arm. The resulting sound causes Kris to jump and twist to see what caused it.

Usually after a knighting ceremony, all those with swords or lances would bang the weapon against their shield; a show of loyalty, a celebration, a promise to stand with their younger comrades. Caeda sits back and claps her hands together as loud as she can, and Merric imitates the gesture.

_We’re all with you,_ is what it says.

...

And perhaps they give him _hope_ , just like he gives them.


End file.
